Scarred
by RynnaJ
Summary: Scars were a sign of strength and life, Alfred could remember someone saying, perhaps one of his politicians or a character in a movie.  They should be worn proudly, not hidden away in shame.  Cue the dramatic violin crescendo.


Alfred stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, shuddering when his bare feet made contact with cold, marble tile. Today had been quite an eventful day, especially with the brutal hockey match against Matthew. The American didn't know why he always let his ego get the best of him when it came to competitions; he had accepted his brother's challenge without thought or hesitation though he knew the Canadian nation would thrash him thoroughly.

It was lucky that he'd had Ivan there with him, or the game would have been pitifully short. The two nations working together had been able to defeat Matthew by a tiny margin, a victory which caused Alfred to cheer, Ivan to smile, and Matthew to scream profanities and slam his hockey stick down on the ice.

He and Ivan, exhausted by the match, had decided to go and pass out back at Alfred's Washington D.C. apartment. Doing such was not an uncommon thing in their relatively new relationship, but usually spending the night together was strictly an after-sex occurrence, when one of them was too spent to drag themselves out of the bed. The idea of just sleeping with the Russian with no further strings attached was more exciting than Alfred would ever admit to Ivan anytime soon. It was just so…domestic.

Besides, Alfred was a cuddler; he liked when the people he cared about were close to him at all times and did his best to make that happen. Other nations, mainly Arthur, called him selfish and spoiled for it but Alfred didn't care. It wasn't his fault that his smile was so radiant that Francis would agree to stay for a few more days even if there was nothing to eat but fast food.

Ivan had once said that he loved Alfred's smile, that it reminded him of sunflowers. Alfred had flushed and coughed, rejecting the girly compliment as much as he cherished it. The Russian, he was quickly discovering, had this way of worming himself into Alfred's heart far too fast when he dropped his intimidating aura and insults and started to bare more and more of himself to the American's eyes and hands.

Said nation was now snoring, sacked out on America's king-sized bed. Alfred could hear him even from behind his bathroom door, which made him chuckle and shake his head. He pulled his towel off of his waist to dry his damp blond hair, frowning when he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

He was handsome, of course. Maybe a little pudgier and less muscled than he would have liked, but that had been the case since the end of World War II. Mattie had called him ridiculous when he said he was getting fat, but his brother just couldn't see what he did damn it.

A red, jagged scar cut horizontally over the part of his chest covering his heart and stuck out almost obscenely against his tanned skin – the Civil War scar had been aching a bit lately, as it was wont to do when Alfred's people were experiencing a higher level of unrest. The 9/11 scar on his right shoulder hurt even more - the old, not quite healed wound had flared up at least three times a month since the attacks occurred.

Sighing, Alfred finished drying himself and hung the towel back on its rack. He wandered out into his bedroom, stark naked and unashamed. He and Ivan had seen every inch of each other's bodies at this point and Alfred felt no need to hide anymore. The Russian's only remaining constant physical barrier was the light pink scarf he always wore even though Alfred had already seen what lay underneath.

As he padded across the room to his black dresser, Alfred looked over at Ivan. The cold nation looked so warm and happy underneath the American flag sheets with his head snuggled into a Captain America pillow. He lay on his side, curled into a loose fetal position. Alfred had once read that sleeping in such a manner was a sign of stress and mistrust, and he definitely believed it in this case. Ivan never seemed to truly let his guard down – the importance of not doing such had been very much beaten into him for his entire life.

But it was Alfred who he genuinely smiled at, who he would listen to for hours, who would kiss his prominent nose and call it handsome, who Ivan would allow to explore his body with something that was almost pure trust but not quite, not quite yet. There was no doubt in Alfred's mind that as much as Ivan had come to mean to him, he had come to mean even more to Ivan. He could see it in the nation's expressive purple eyes, in the way he always made sure to restrain himself around Alfred, and in the way he would touch the American so tenderly as they writhed desperately against each other, crying out into the night.

When he reached his destination, Alfred shot the slumbering nation a half-hearted grin before turning around and rooting through the top drawer of his dresser for his white, I NY tee shirt. Pulling it out, he threw the garment over his head and struggled for a few seconds to put his arms through the armholes. When his head finally emerged through the neck hole his hair was a mess and his glasses were knocked askew.

He adjusted the glasses and pushed them back up his nose, thankful that the Russian on his bed was still asleep. If Ivan was awake he'd be snorting and smiling that shit-eating grin that Alfred hated with a passion during the Cold War, probably while making some snide remark about Alfred being unable to even dress himself properly.

Alfred turned his head to sneer pettily at the sleeping form as if the event had actually occurred and imagined the widened smile that would have been thrown back at him in response. He was about to stick his tongue out when he realized he was making faces at someone who wasn't even conscious. Alfred shook his head; maybe he really should use that coupon for a free therapy session that Mattie had jokingly given him for his birthday a few months ago.

He ran a hand over his messy blond hair and started to walk towards the bed, eager to slip under the covers and join the cozy-looking Russian. Though Alfred wouldn't yet admit it to Ivan, he loved waking up with his face pressed against the other's broad chest and a thick arm wrapped around his waist. That confession could wait - they were already taking a big step in deciding to sleep together without "sleeping" together first.

Alfred approached the foot of the bed and stopped a couple feet away to watch Ivan as the nation shifted onto his side with a grunt and kicked at the blankets to loosen them. When he settled down again the covers were half way down his back, exposing the scars sprinkled along it. Alfred raked his gaze down that powerfully muscled expanse and remembered how he had once run his tongue along those scars while Ivan had squirmed and moaned beneath him in a rare moment of beautiful submission.

He let his eyes travel down the body of his Russian, over the curve of his spine and the blanket-covered slopes of his bottom, thighs and calves. Ivan's left leg was bent at the knee and sprawled so that it spanned almost the entirety of the mattress. Alfred would have to move the heavy limb to crawl into bed. The other leg pointed straight down and the large bare foot at the end stuck out from under the blanket.

Alfred was about to cross the remaining distance to his inviting oasis of slumber when something on the bottom of Ivan's foot caught his eye. Curious, he squinted as he stepped to the end of the bed and frowned when the anomaly revealed itself to be a large, pink line stretching down the length of Ivan's instep. He didn't remember any marks being there but figured he'd probably never looked; Ivan almost always wore socks to bed due to the cold. The Russian's hands and feet were always a little cold, no matter how warm the air around him was, as a reflection of the snow that spanned his vast lands.

Alfred bent over and reached his hand out to wrap his fingers around Ivan's ankle then pulled the foot up towards him. He didn't realize that he had used too much of his strength and dragged the larger nation nearly half way down the bed until he saw purple eyes glaring at him tiredly from under a curtain of silver-blond hair.

"Mmmnn Fredka," Ivan said with a sleep-thick voice, "What are you doing?"

The American ignored him and looked closer at the foot in his hand, investigating the scar he had seen earlier, and his eyes widened with shock at what he found. There was definitely more than one mark. He'd thought Ivan must have just cut himself on something at some point but that couldn't be, the damage was too extensive.

The sole of Ivan's foot was littered with scars in a morbid array of colors and shapes; ranging from pale to red and thin and long to jagged and thick. These wounds were no accident; they were inflicted just like all of Ivan's others.

Disturbed and unable to tear his eyes away, Alfred exhaled shakily and traced the tip of his pointer finger lightly down the largest scar. Ivan snorted a laugh and twisted onto his stomach, trying to yank his ankle out of the American's grasp.

Alfred's mouth quirked into a smile at the reaction, "Calm down dude, I'm not trying to tickle you," He looked back down at the many marks on Ivan's foot and his smile dropped back into a concerned frown, "Ivan how did you get these?" he asked, voice hoarse with distress, "You don't get scars like these from just walking around barefoot, what happened?"

Ivan's shoulders tensed and he didn't answer the question immediately. If Alfred could see the larger nation's face, he'd see violet eyes filled with ice and lips tugged up into a severe smile full of loathing as the Russian lost himself in memory.

_Rope burned as it rubbed skin off around wrists, ankles, and neck. The whip cracked down again and again on tender flesh. Teeth clenched tightly to hold back a strangled cry as skin split open, spilling hot blood down between straining toes to pool on the floor. "Where will you run now?" A pitiless voice growled, "Now you can go nowhere. You," __**crack,**__ "are", __**crack**__, "MINE!"_

"Those are very old. Do not be worrying about it, they are better now."

Alfred sighed, wondering why he expected Ivan to go into detail when he had yet to hear the stories behind many of the Russian's scars. That was alright though, he would wait. One day he would break through Ivan's carefully built walls completely. He was good at that which, according to Mattie and Arthur, was an annoying ability.

He decided not to press any further and risk Ivan storming out of the apartment or searching for his pipe to bring down on Alfred's skull. The American would rather not have to hurt his friend. Instead he found his morbid curiosity growing and couldn't help but ask:

"Is- is the other…?"

Ivan said nothing and still did not turn around to look Alfred in the eye, but he obligingly moved his other foot out from beneath the blanket for examination. Just as the American had expected, the pale flesh was marred with a matching roadmap of old wounds. Alfred looked from the scarred feet to the healed whiplashes and bullet wounds trailing Ivan's back then to the scarf still wrapped securely around Ivan's neck. Something inside of him hardened.

He remembered when he first saw the marks on Ivan's neck, scars twisted and curved like the gnarled bones of a skeleton's hand wrapping around his flesh. He had wondered whether Ivan could feel them as such; squeezing and scratching and pulling him backwards into silent darkness. The memory of the glint of pain and desperate mania in the larger man's violet eyes as his harsh grip painfully ground together the cracked bones of the hand that had dared touch abused flesh made Alfred's chest tighten and his hand ache with phantom pangs.

That had been the first and last time he'd attempted to run his fingers along Ivan's neck without permission. Even after giving allowance, the Russian always tensed and shuddered and clenched his jaw when Alfred made contact, no matter how soft, with the heavily scarred skin.

There were countless times in Alfred's comparatively young life when he'd wanted to scream into the past until he was hoarse, and those moments were many of them. He had, of course, never discussed such things with Ivan. He knew that his response would be similar to the one given by Arthur so long ago.

"_Thinking about such things is childish and can make you lose your mind. Focus on the things you can change." Arthur said deprecatorily, forest green eyes flickering briefly with remembrance. Alfred nodded slowly and, staring into those eyes darkened by stains of centuries of spilled blood, suddenly realized with a spark of painful comprehension that he had so much left to live through._

Bright blue eyes slipped closed in quiet mourning for suffering that was not his. Or perhaps it was.

In one of those instants of sentimentality to which Alfred was, unfortunately, prone, he leaned in to press a kiss to the sole of Ivan's foot. He heard the Russian let out a shaky breath.

"Alfred, it is late and we should be sleeping," Ivan said roughly, finally turning his head to look at Alfred again, "Come to bed with me." Violet eyes lit with a contradiction of warmth, pain, and something else the American wasn't ready to recognize. Not yet.

With a tired smile, Alfred set Ivan's foot down gently and moved to comply. He went to the bedroom door to flip off the light switch situated next to it, leaving the two nations in darkness lighted by the gentle glow of the near-full moon outside of the window. Alfred yawned as he walked to the right side of the bed and sat down on the edge, taking off his glasses and setting them on the bedside table. He looked over to Ivan and saw that the pale nation had rolled onto his side and lifted his arm, and the blanket along with it, as an invitation.

The American immediately lay down facing his companion and shifted his body into Ivan's arms to snuggle fully against the large frame. He draped an arm around the Russian's waist and splayed his fingers along the wide back, stroking his index finger along the long, rough scar he knew was right under Ivan's shoulder blade.

Scars were a sign of strength and life, Alfred could remember someone saying, perhaps one of his politicians or a character in a movie. They were a physical manifestation of one's life story. They should be worn proudly, not hidden away in shame. Cue the dramatic violin crescendo and the tear-filled eyes of the person whose life those words just saved.

Alfred was the United States of America - the most powerful nation in the world. He was strong and he did not need rescuing, he _did_ the rescuing. As long as his people believed in him and gave him their support he would never break. He would bounce back and become even better because Alfred F. Jones _did not_ give up and everyone who knew him knew that well. It didn't matter how many scars he would be given or how many had been given to him in the past.

But sometimes it hurt. Sometimes it hurt so bad that Alfred wanted to curl into a ball and stay there.

_Bullets shot endlessly from wooden muskets, whizzing past in a cacophony of explosive force. Air thick with gunpowder and black smoke and death chokes off screams from brother to brother. Mustard gas sloughs off the skin inside the nose and throat, eyes burning. Machine gun fire rat-a-tat-tat and piles of corpses face down in trenches. Warped metal and broken glass falling to concrete streets and fear and paranoia and blood and blood and blood._

Alfred sighed and burrowed his face into Ivan's chest, placing a kiss on the large, raised scar over the larger nation's heart before resting his ear against it. When his own scars began to throb in time to Ivan's heartbeat, he closed his eyes and pretended that the feeling twisting in his stomach was pride.


End file.
